


In the Face of a Child

by Alexandrite811



Category: Peter Pan (2003)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-20
Updated: 2004-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexandrite811/pseuds/Alexandrite811
Summary: So much lies with in the simple shape and beauty of a child's face, enough that it can unlock so many memories...





	In the Face of a Child

Looking down upon the sleeping form was almost like gazing into a mirror of the past, a photograph that someone had taken of her when she had been that age. Almost…

 

There were differences of course, each person was unique from another, and no child completely resembled any one of its parents. It was a union of images and colors, and it was the semblance of the father that she was focusing on. He was there, just there, in the wicked tilt and gleam of the eyes that when open, were as stunningly green as hers were blue, and there, just at the corners of her lips where a knowing and willful smile dimpled and brightened her face.

 

Reaching out, she let her hand skim through the soft treasure of golden hair that fell over the feminine curves of her child’s cheek. It parted easily beneath her fingers, uncovering the delicate shape of her ear, pale beneath the bejeweled fingers that traced it. Nothing truly special or unique about it, nothing that anyone but the mother would notice and understand. Next to the child’s eyes, the girl’s ears were the most precious treasure the child held. Fair, delicate, and tastefully pierced, it was their shape that drew her eyes, her heart and her memories. They were faerie ears, softly pointed at the tips…

 

Just as her father’s had been…

 

Faerie ears and spriteful features, so complimentary of her own and so far from her husband’s sharp angles and deep lines, that one could almost speculate at the child’s true origins. There was nothing of her dear Mr. Norrington in this child’s face, as there was in their son.

 

Sighing, she moved away from the bed of her daughter and paced to the fireplace, her skirt swaying silently against her legs as she walked the breadth of the room.

 

Yes, the child did so resemble her father that it was really a great humor to her that no one suspected anyone but William to be the father. Unfaithfulness and dishonor of such magnitude simply was not done, nor considered, in respectable families of England’s high society and she was of a respectable family. No, not such a sweet, demure woman, born into the privilege and training of high society; she certainly would never stoop to such an atrocity. No, indeed! William must be the father.

 

And so, she had let them all believe.

 

And so, she had lied…

 

A log split and crackled as the fire burned through it. Such a bitter and sharp sound did nothing but highlight her feelings in its harshness. If she felt any shame regarding the conception of her child, it was that she had _remained unashamed_ of her actions. She could not feel the horror of having been unfaithful to William, they had not been engaged at the time, but she could feel the weight of having betrayed him in her feelings and accepting him while she carried the child of another.

 

William was a good man, attentive and loving, warm and unrestrained in his affections to her and the children. He loved his daughter as well as his son, there was no distinction between the two. They were both treasures in his eyes. She could not have wished for a more doting or attentive father for her children. If he knew or doubted the parentage of their daughter, he never showed any less emotion for the child or the mother.

 

She loved him for that…

 

She had chosen better than she had known in Norrington, and beyond the girl’s true father, she could want for no other in either of their lives.

 

She smiled to herself, seeing nothing but the memories of her love.

 

_“He was very much a child himself…”_

He was the embodiment of youth and fantasy, the hope and light of all dreams. At least that was how she saw him now as she looked back on him. Back then she had seen him as the answer to her prayers, all of her hopes manifested and come to life. And in so many ways, he had been.

 

To John and Michael, he was everything they hoped to be; a hero, an idol that was not old or bound by life’s strings as their father had been. He had been dashing and courageous, living beyond the bounds of propriety and rules. He had represented everything of which young boys could dreamed to aspire. He was freedom.

 

She had told them the stories and together they had nursed each other’s hopes and aspirations. They had talked of him as real, defended him against their father and other children, and so to them he had become real in a sense. In their minds he was real.

 

Then he had entered their room, flesh and blood and everything they had imagined.

 

Even now, at the age of thirty, she remembered what it felt like to see him, to know him, to listen and walk with him. Even now, when childhood dreams and fancies and truths, should be forgotten and discarded, she knew he was real. She would always know. He had been vivacity in flesh, energy in human form. He moved quickly and hardly paused, as though he could not get enough of life and action.

 

He had been about the age of five and ten then, with the mentality that swayed between a child of four and a man of twenty.

 

Oh, how she adored him.

 

He promised her adventures and youth. Joy and fun beyond the bounds and restrictions of time and society. He offered her the air, the land, and the water as her playgrounds at will; to fly with the wind, run with fae, and to swim with the mermaids. He offered her everything, and he offered it without hope of gain beyond her company. He offered it free for an eternity…

 

And he would have given if she had let him.

 

Oh, she had wanted it, wanted it till it had all but scorched at her soul. If she paused and let herself, she could still feel the want smoldering in her heart. Had she had the courage and will to leave her world for his she could have lived the dream, but she had denied both of them and returned home to duty, responsibility, and her mother.

 

Mother… that is what he had termed her during her first stay; mother. He had been too much of a child then, wanting her to fill the absent place in his life, to give and care for him as his own mother could no longer do. She had needed that then, at least for a little while. She had needed to be needed, to care for someone but it hadn’t been enough. Even then, at the age of thirteen she had wanted more than that from him.

 

He came back for her as he had promised. A year later, he took her back to her dream and that time the dream had faded faster than before. He had had no need of a mother then, but little interest or knowledge of what she had needed from him.

 

Still so much a child…

 

She had returned, saddened and depressed, and it had shown.

 

Two years passed away before his next visit. She was a woman of six and ten and the object of adoration by some, William being one. She was polite and confident in society, dancing and mingling with them, but never did she give encouragement. They could never have her heart. She would wait for him…

 

And he came…

 

He had seemed taller when he entered her window, but there was the same innocent naiveté to his eyes. He still rode the wind and laughed and joked, but there was something more to him this time. It was in his eyes when he would look at her sometime and, in his smile, when he thought she wasn’t looking.

 

He would never grow up and perhaps this was as far as his frame would mature. Three years had taught her that he would never truly change. He could never really be hers…

 

And she didn’t want him to.

 

She wanted him as he was; wild and free with a will that would never be broken. He was the embodiment of her dreams and her hopes and any change to that would make him less than what he was: everything. He was everything to her; past, present and future. She would always love him as he was and so, though she would stay longer with him this time, she would let him go and return to her world again.

 

This time, as he left her at her window, he left something with her other than the thimble and the kiss placed uncertainly on her lips. He left part of himself.

 

She turned her head and smiled over toward her daughter.

 

He had left her…

 

She turned back to the fire, the heat and the blaze reminding her of a night she would never forget.

 

It had all begun with a thimble…

 

She smiled as she remembered him pressing it into her palm, remembered the moment when she had looked at him, into those deep green eyes and gave in. The thimble had led to a kiss. One kissed progressed to two, and two deepened into something more. Inexperienced herself, she had led him through with what knowledge she possessed and even with the fumbling it was more memorable than any time after.

 

There was a glow to his face, his eyes wide with wonder at what she was revealing to him. The night had been warm and the grass, soft beneath them as they discovered each other together. If she tried, she could remember the press of his hands or the tentative kiss he place on her lips as they lay together in the aftermath of their discovery.

 

She had felt guilty afterward. Had she changed him, destroyed innocence in one moment of selfishness? She had underestimated him she supposed or overestimated her influence. He was up the next morning, long before she was, all playfulness and youth once more. There had been no sign of any change. It was as if he had already forgotten the night or more likely, thought of it as a kind of game.

 

She had made him promise that it was theirs together, that night. Their secret alone.

 

He had promised and then taken her to another part of the island she had never seen before. Perhaps as a way of sealing the oath. He always had such an innocently sweet way of doing that without knowing it.

 

The next day she returned, and he had left her with the promise to return. She had accepted William’s proposal a few weeks after her return, hoping to give her child a home and a name.

 

It would be seven years before he returned again, but she would be a wife and mother of two children. That meeting had torn at her heart. He had looked so devastated as he stood at the window staring at her…

 

She closed her eyes, the harsh, angry words they had used blaring through her mind. It hadn’t been the words that had hurt but the look on his face as she told him of her life: her husband, her age, and her children. He had left quickly, and she had not seen him for six years.

 

She wondered if she ever would…

 

Now she turned from the fire, to the stars, walking away from the heated brilliance and comfort of the domestic warmth to sit upon the window seat before the opened panels of glass. She looked out over London, but her gaze quickly lifted, as it always did, to the stars. It was a habit that not even dignity and responsibility could deprive her of. For as long as she could remember, she had sat night after night in silent and often dreamy reverence of the sight before her. It was never the glare and graceful bustle that played out below; her attention was ever up and over, far and away from the chaos and noise. Out to the stars she always cast her gaze.

 

Always to the stars…

 

Sitting there, her knees pulled close, her skirt sheltering her legs from the chill of an English night, she leaned her upper body out, her elbows folded against the ledge, her head and neck craned up to the stars. It was now that she realized how often she caught her daughter in a mirroring pose. Though others might mistake her for admiring the forms and lights of London, she knew her daughter looked further, just as she had always done. Moira looked out to the heavens and to her dreams…

 

She often wondered if she saw what she had seen at her age. There were times that she felt, perhaps, that her daughter saw further than she ever had or could.

 

Did she see the star?

 

Did she know of the place?

 

Of the youth who is both boy and man?

 

Of course, she knew of him in the stories that her mother told her, but did she know the truth beyond the stories? Did she see more in her mother’s eyes than mere fiction and fable? Did she hear the warmth in her voice as she recounted the adventures?

 

Did she know of her own connection to spriteful youth who raced the wind and danced with faeries?

 

At times there was a sad knowing in her eyes that warred strongly with painful rapture. It was in those moments when she caught that look, that she wondered at how far her daughter’s assumptions had come.

 

She sat at the window for a while, staring out in the direction of his star. She could no longer pinpoint it as she once had, but she still knew where it would be. She still believed…

 

She sat there, memories and longings swirling around her, drowning her in their familiar embrace and she welcomed it.

 

“Wendy?”

 

Caught in her reverie, she jumped slightly, turning quickly toward the door, lost so immensely in her waking dream that for a moment she imagined that she would find a pirate glaring down upon her, bloodlust and death in his eyes, but her face easily softened, and her smile fluttered to life as she looked into the eyes of her William.

 

“Wendy? What are you doing by the open window?” His voice was all concern as he quickly stepped into the nursery and by sat by her side. “You shouldn’t be near the window in your condition.”

 

“I’m fine, William,” she sighed, with a smile on her face as she reached out to cup his cheek.

 

He covered her hand with both of his and pressed into her warmth. “I know…”, turning his head he kissed her palm before looking into her eyes. “Husband’s prerogative I’m afraid. I’m legally allowed to worry over you.”

 

“I know… and I love you for it.” Taking one of his hands in her own, she moved it down and pressed it to her slightly swelled stomach.  “What better place for them to grow than under the stars?”

 

William’s face melted, as she knew it would.

 

He may not be the first in her heart, but he was closer than she had thought anyone would ever be.

 

He looked at her, “Them?”

 

“Twins.”

 

He looked at her, his eyes wide, and she simply smiled warmly.

 

“Are you sure? Did the doctor say?”

 

“I just know…”, her hand squeezed his, “I can feel it.”

 

He looked back down at his hand then back up at her and she laughed. “A boy and a girl…”

 

Satisfied, he leaned down, placing a kiss against what would be his children.

 

“What should we name them?” she asked, enjoying the line of thought that they had come to.

 

William thought for a moment, closing his eyes. This was what endeared him to her, his thought and care. At times, he was so much like Moira’s father had been that it brought tears to her eyes. Then slowly, he smiled and looked up at her, “Rebecca, for the girl.”

 

“Rebecca…”, she said it slowly before smiling. “It’s perfect, Will.” Her eyes became dreamy, “Absolutely perfect.”

 

She sat there thinking of the children and the name, imagining whispering Rebecca’s name as she sat on this window seat and told her the stories, she had told Moira and William Jr. Perhaps, Moira would help tell the stories as well.

 

Lips pressing against her hand drew her back to the present.

 

William smiled lovingly at his wife. “What of the boy? What shall we call him?”

 

Wendy looked down at her stomach, her free hand splaying over the gentle bump that was forming. She glanced over at Moira, remembering the faerie features, then turned her gaze out toward the stars, out toward him. As she looked into the darkness, a slight movement rippled beneath her hand and in that one brief moment a star burst into her vision, bright and warm in the darkness of space, out shining those around it as its light pure and brilliant.

 

A smile flowered on her lips and a tear fell uninhibited from eye.

 

“Peter…”

 

She turned back to her husband and squeezed his hand.

 

“Let’s call him Peter…”

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published on Fanfiction.net under the author name Alexandrite Moonlight


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